Sea of Grey, Tide of Green
by Sarnakh the Sunderer
Summary: Only one can truly die... Far from anyplace worth mentioning, orks have overrun a once-proud hive world. Two dynasties unite to cleanse it and claim the treasures below. Four powerful personalities appear, two lords, two Crypteks. All have their own agendas, and their own goals. Court intrigue plays a large role, too, so beware even your allies. Rating may be upped for violence.
1. Dramatis Personae

Dramatis Personae

Sarnakh The Sunderer  
Naculan dynasty  
Phaeron of the Naculan Dynasty  
Overlord  
Warscythe, phylactery, resurrection orb, phase shifter, gauntlet of fire, mindshackle scarabs

Catacomb Command Barge 'Sundering Wrath'

Therek Thunderseeker  
Naculan Dynasty  
Chief Cryptek of the Naculan Dynasty, Friend and Advisor to the Phaeron  
Ethermancer  
Wargear: Lightning Field, Voltaic staff and overcharge capacitators, phylactery

Overcharge Capacitators are located in hands and chest, and when his staff is split and in his forearms, allow him to brawl with fists of lightning (I came up with this before angels of death, I swear it), and with his lightning field create a lightning bomb he can throw.

Name: Varguard Syramis  
Dynasty: Jerathi'tekh, higher sect of the Nihiltekh.  
Rank: Regent Lord, Third of his Phaeron's Chosen, acting as Varguard.  
Unit Archetype: Lychguard  
Wargear: Warscythe, Ghostmantle, Phylactery

Zalaan the Stubborn  
Dynasty: Jerathi'tekh  
Rank: Cryptek Acolyte  
Unit Archetype: Cryptek  
Gear: Staff of Light, chronometron, phylactery

Appears to be a Cryptek without a 'beard' and enshrouded with a symbolic red and gold mechanicus cloak, becomes bitter when prodded. Seems rude.


	2. It's All Intriuge (And lots of yapping)

**AN: This is a novelization of a role-play that is ongoing on the forum Necrontyr Online. Contributing (currently, may change) are, myself, Syramis, and Zalaan. Updates are as it progresses and at my discretion.**

 **Break**

 _What strategic or sentimental value this world had meant nothing to the Vargard who's cybernetic gaze was cast across the limitless dunes of rusty red, and distant spires of desecrated decades gone. The last of what had claimed this planet as a Hive World slipping ever deeper into the mire of sand and particulates, the dust of a people obliterated long ago. The last of the great swooping architecture was little more than husks of ceramite and plasteel reaching like so many dead trees in the distance. What killed the prior tenets of this C'tan forsaken land, and how it went about such meant nothing to the ancient androidic being, their coming and going little more than a blink of time to the eons of time he had witnessed come and go with a face that showed no care, and a power core that felt no love..._

 _Why had his Master seen fit to send him? What compelled Jerathi'tekh to offer a tithe of several thousand soldiers and some hundreds of war machines to the cause of this... Sunderer? it was not his place to question the Sorcerer King's actions, though he still was capable of pondering the motives. Understanding the Master's motives gave one insight into which means to best fulfill his commands, and while Syramis was denied the vetted mantle of his Master's right hand, it was still his highest pride, to act as shield wall and guardian. Even if, he was commanded to do so for another..._

 _Slowly, his optics scanned the horizon once more, the limits of his own sight spotting nothing to warrant concern. However, Vargard Syramis had more than just his own sight to lead him. Intrinsically he was bonded to the matrices of eyes innumerable, of legions beyond count and time. Streaking high above, in the aether of the void, Tomb Blades and Scythes of several sorts moved with a speed and ease unmatched by the infant races, their sensor arrays scouring the waterless globe far below, hounding for signs of the green skin fiends which had landed months ago. Studying their movements and purpose, detailing the former, and finding no sense to the latter. Why did his Master take interest in this world? Was a tomb sleeping far below, and the two nobles sought to share in its bounty? Did this dustball's location bare importance which his ancient intellect could not gleam, yet the others saw fruit in?_

 _The sky above was as unimpressive as the land below. A far flung field of darkened clouds and rushing winds, punctuated only by pockets of dim, red tinted sun and cracks of crimson lightening... Was everything here red? The atmosphere itself tinted solar glow to that same bloody hue, and it was only by some miracle that long range sensors could pry into the sand-scape below. The green tide moving, rushing from crumbled spire to fallen fortress, ripping and tearing like hungry scavengers at a corpse older then knowing. The once proud Aquila reduced to spare parts in their mad dash. Did they know what awaited them? Did they make ready to face their end in a ramshackle rush of half-made machines and hollow, meaningless war cries?_

Eventually, the Vargard relented, pummel of his warscythe finally wrenching from the sands of eons past, his ghost mantle buffeting in the howl of uncaring winds as he turned, and strode off to meet this, Sunderer... Time, to meet the locals...

Break

Sarnakh the Sunderer stood aboard his barge 'Sundering Wrath,' and surveyed the forces arrayed beneath him. His own legions, carried by his flagship 'Will of the Phaeron,' were marching in lockstep, clearing an area for the massive ship to land its heavy legions. They had arrived only recently, held up by the usual internecine conflict that Lady Zetak stirred up every decade or so. It had become almost a chronometer. If she didn't toss a fit over something inconsequential, there was something wrong. That intuition hadn't failed him yet.

Behind him was his advisor and friend, the Ethermancer Therek on his Canoptek Tarantula, Abbadon. His friend had been disgusted to learn there was a human warlord with the same name as his pet, but there was nothing to be done; the human was too well protected.

The pair was on the way to the rendezvous point, where they would meet with Vargard Syramis, who's master had pledged forces to this campaign. Soon they would formally meet, and then this campaign could start in earnest.

Sarnakh mused on their reasons for coming. He had come for the C'tan shard he had imprisoned here (along with the other artifacts he'd stowed beneath), Therek was here to kill orks, and the third reason...well, he and Therek knew, and since it was a reasonable request within the bounds of their alliance, the Phaeron was bound by honor to agree. He didn't mind, of course. His ally was most agreeable, when he wasn't in a battle-rage.

"The meeting point is ahead, Phaeron. Recommend we stop and secure location."

"I agree. Gather four of your best constructs. I shall bring five Lychguard. Hoist the parley flag; we meet him in peace."

"As the Phaeron wills it." With that, Therek called two wraiths and a Spyder to him. Sarnakh's Lychguard marched to him, and the party of eleven locked joints and awaited the arrival of the Vargard.

Break

Winds of dusted bone and powdered rust buffeted at their necrodermic shells as they waited, infinitesimal sparks kicking up from the barge's quantum field every now and again as larger debris was strew about by the howling winds and building storm. Eventually, however, a single form took shape through the many veils of rising tempest, a lone, yet towering construct of necron figure, his cloak whipping wildly, warscythe inert in one hand. Vargard Syramis inclined his head ever so slightly, just enough to show manners, but lacking in true respect. Smoldering green optics moving from one life-stripped automaton shell to the next, then turning to stare off into the vacantness of the storm, perfectly mute, perfectly still...

"My Master bids you well, Sunderer, and trusts you will make good use, of his most generous gift." It was then that the first thrums of antigrav systems pierced the dim of the storm, and eldritch green lights flickered into unlife behind the vargard, illuminating the outline of one monolith, then another, and another... Arks, barges, the sudden whine of tomb blades slicing air all around them. it seemed the agent of the Sorcerer King was not alone, after all. "Gaze upon the golds and blues of his splendid heraldry, and know it is yours to command, Phaeron... For now."

Break

Sarnakh the Sunderer inclined his head as well, so as to indicate just who was in charge. With a wave of his hand and an interstitial command burst, Therek Thunderseeker calmed the raging storm to reveal Vargard Syramis and his escort of war machines. The blue and gold of the heraldry was indeed splendid, though Therek thought (perhaps vainly) that the silver and red of the Naculan colors were indeed superior.

Therek looked on as the two exchanged pleasantries, or what passed for them in the age of the machine.

"You wish to know why you master sent you, correct?" the Sunderer said, as part of the discourse.

"I go where my master tells me," was the cold reply.

"Ah, yes, yes. Loyalty to the master is important. But I can see your desire in your eyes. You hunger for the knowledge. You want to know why your master has seen fit to have you serve another."

A beat.

"...Correct." Syramis nodded once.

"I shall tell you a tale, Vargard. A tale of a young and foolish lord, and his glory days of adventuring."

"Will this story advance my knowledge of the reason we are here?" Syramis asked, voice cold.

"It will." The reply was colder, fed up slightly with the insolence. Therek looked on as his master seemed to grow with something like anger, something he knew was an illusion but was nonetheless entertaining to watch. His friend was not to be trifled with when angered, and lack of respect was one of the few things that riled him up more than two notches. He was, however, impatient now. could they not simply move on to eradicate the orks? They were a vermin, a pest, and most importantly, spawn of the old ones. That alone made them worthy of oblivion.

"Then I shall listen."

"Once, there was a young lord, who after the advent of his biotransference became an adventurer and explorer, and for a time accompanied some Triarch Praetorians and helped them enforce the law. He, over his many years of travel, accumulated a wealth of trinkets. He decided to take a world for his own and use it for his storage space. After a time he sealed it and ceded control to his Phaeron, who succumbed to madness shortly after. Control then passed to the successor, me. I have not had a chance to investigate before now, but now I arrive I see no way to conquer it myself, so I sent a general call for help with promises of riches within to the first to respond. Your master responded, and so we go to war. There are many powerful relics beneath, including a Transcendent C'Tan that my predecessor had buried here after the last wars. That was when he began his descent to madness."

"I see. Thank you for the clarification. Now we need to discuss overall battleplan."

"So we shall."

Break

The Vargard shifted his weight, about to move in following the other dynasty, but stopped, frozen as he stared off over an empty dune. One of infinite dunes, yet something upon it's barren peak held the automaton's attention. Ever so slightly, his head reclined to one side, then inclined ever so slightly. "You are in luck, Sunderer, as I recently have come to possess very, useful insights regarding the orks..." As they trudged through the sands, he made a motion, as if rolling his pauldrons, no doubt expecting to meet upon the Phaeron's personal flagship.

At some point in their walk, they were joined by a staff bearing cryptek, one whom lacked the ornamental 'beard' accessory, and instead favored a heavy, billowing red cloak with golden trim. While careful exam showed it to be composed of woven necrodermis, the iconography was that of the Imperium pf Mankind, the 'Machine Cult', to be exact. It, or rather, she was mostly silent, yet every now and again piped up with a question which any Necrontyr worth their metal would have already known... Odd story, that one...

"Young Zalaan here was once a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, before our Master, 'blessed' her with immortality for awakening us... During her own age of flesh, she had done battle with the Orks upon several occasions, and bares insights we may find useful..."

"Um, I'm RIGHT HERE you know?" She piped in, without any trace or hint of respect for the situation or people present.

A twitch pulled at the Varguard's empty left claw, and one could visibly notice his restrained agitation. "Yes, we know, and this does not concern you yet."

"Buuut, your talking about me?"

"Irrelevant, you speak when spoken TO, not about. It is a matter of Court Etiquette."

"Court stuff is stupid."

Another twitch, followed by a sound more akin to the grinding of metal then a tired groan.

Break

If he still had a malleable mouth, Therek would have smirked (He should talk to the Lady Jayn about that at some point. He missed facial expression). He could remember the heiress acting this way when young in the time of flesh, deep underground the frigid surface of the crownworld. She saw her father perhaps twice a day, then more often as she got older and more mature. She still never quite shook the disrespect for protocol, though.

Soon, the party arrived at what Sarnakh had designated the command center for the campaign.

Therek dismounted from Abbadon and ordered the Canoptek constructs to patrol. The Lychguard accompanying Sarnakh locked shields and servos at the door, facing outward.

 _Will of the Phaeron_ sat in orbit high above, teleportation flashes breaking the night.

With a wave of his hand, a nearby cryptek (much lower in rank than Therek) summoned a set of chairs for the now-smaller party and a table with a display of the world.

"As it stands," Sarnakh said, we control one-thirtieth of the planet. We are here," he said, indicating an area. "The nearest vault entrance able to accommodate everything we will need to bring to bear is here." An area flashed red in the green ork-held territory, about a third of the way around the globe.

"I can slip a small force of wraiths into a much smaller entrance made for the task, but they will be unsupported and out of communication with us for some time if we do this," Therek added. "I would need to be on-site to use them with anything nearing a fraction of the abilities they could run. And I am too large to fit, nor can I phase through dimensions. Not my area of expertise." The area he indicated was only a tenth of the way around the globe. It also appeared to be under collapsed hive buildings.

"Thank you, Therek. Syramis, your thoughts?"

Break

"Curious," Began the Vargard, slowly walking around the table, one set of talons dragging sparks across the surface as he went. "For one whom so rashly hates them, your plan speaks little of dealing with the Krork, not directly..." Stopping, he glanced to the red robed Cryptek to the side, then resumed. "Allow us, to amend this: I will move to the other end of this world, and lay siege upon their numbers. The Krork lust for battle as surely as we do power, every green skinned thing on this world will come running..."

Again Syramis moved about the table, then stabbed a finger into the provided globe of refracted light. "We will strike here, with all the grandeur and glory befitting the Jerathi'tekh and our might. Allow the Krork time to come, and we will slog them down like a pit of tar. I assume your plan is to unleash the C'tan upon them as soon as the vault is breached?" Looking away from the map to regard his counterparts. "Yet, to properly deal with the primitives, we must target not only their lives, but also their supplies: A krork can make use of anything, turning refuse to weapons and scrap to engines. We must deny them such in the event this becomes a lengthy campaign..."

Turning back, he again froze, standing perfectly still as he stared down an open doorway... Then rolled his pauldrons and moved back to his chair, making no attempt to sit. "My forces stand ready, should my plan befit your wishes, Phaeron. Regardless of method, we are yours to command, though Young Zalaan stays with myself, as per my Master's decree..."

Break

The Cryptek, Zalaan, remained fairly quiet, her single optic burned bright as she observed. The strategies were alien to her; she was much more accustomed to other methods of plan and attack. She glanced at Syramis anytime he looked at her, and although she couldn't; a scowl could almost be felt from her. She wasn't fond of him at all it seemed; and it had been a little bit of time.

She remained where she stood, holding her staff close and leaning against it some, head tilting down a bit as she went to stare at the ground in thought. " _C'tan you deal with it._ " She said more to herself. "Humor." She shifted her footing; briefly spacing out until Syramis spoke of her. Her head jerked over to look at him. "I am.. was.. An adult. Still am." She held up a finger, tone agitated.

"You've been **babysitting** me, like I can't take care of myself." She was quite uncharacteristic. She quieted down, hand carefully reaching back to her side, brushing her cloak.

Break

"You dare insul-" whatever Therek was going to say was cut off as his master's palm crashed over his vocalizer, clearly conveying a clear message of 'shut up', simultaneously throwing him back a foot or two.

When he was satisfied that his friend-but subordinate-would remain silent, Sarnakh spoke.

"I will make one change." Sarnakh stepped forward from his chair and slashed an X over one area perhaps two kilometers west from where Syramis had indicated, in open plain as opposed to collapsed city.

"Strike here. No further east. Do not expand east. There is something there I want that I must find myself. Draw the Krork to you and annihilate them, but do not leave that area. I will allocate a deathmark legion and an Annihilation Nexus to aid you."

He beckoned to a nearby Cryptek, draped in green skin and dried blood. "Jakal, ensure my machines don not fall. Keep tabs on this distraction for me." Jakal perked, as to ask a question, and without missing a beat Sarnakh added, "And you have permission to harvest one hundred skins. Consider it advance payment." The Cryptek nodded and slunk off.

"As for you, scion of the Adeptus Mechanicus," he said, fixing Zalaan with a cold glare, "you have spirit. Use it well, and you will survive the life of court with no few luxuries. Let it run free as an untamed mount, however, and you will be dragged behind like so much dead meat. Court life is deadly. Be deadlier, but subservient when required."

He turned and stuck his claw in a small portal. When it withdrew it held a piece of metal hammered into a cogwheel shape. Small scarabs scuttled over it, in and out of the eye and mouth holes of the inlaid skull.

He presented it to the young Necron, pressing it into a claw. "Zalaan of the Jerathi'tekh. This is a token of your old organization. I saw fit to...modify it...a long time ago, likely when you were still flesh. It is a fabrication microscarab hive. Perhaps this will cure your so-called 'babysitting' problem slightly." He returned, then issued a reminder.

"Do not forget, Syramis. Right here, no further east." He jabbed his finger into the globe of light, where he had made the x prior. With that, he grabbed Therek's shoulder and dragged him out of the room, down off into a small warp portal. The Lychguard outside broke and followed their master. The Canoptek creatures took up the guard in their place.

Break

Zalaan stood firmly and stared, her head down, shoulders hunched up a bit. She looked Sarnakh up and down briefly as he brought out a familiar icon to her. When presented to her, she almost took it from him; but clutched it when he had placed it into her claw, bringing it closer to her form.

"Hrm.. Thanks." She said nothing more, at least not towards Sarnakh.

She looked towards Syramis; seeming to brood into her own red cloak, her spinal cord coiled at the end and flicked, like an agitated cat.  
Zalaan took a brief peek over her shoulder, then resumed her posture. "Was that one wearing the _hide_ of some creature?"

Break

Sarnakh and Therek appeared in the Phaeron's personal quarters. No one else was present save various small Canoptek constructs and a single unrepaired Lychguard, who was only in his state for lack of available Crypteks.

Sarnakh fixed his subordinate with a cold glare. "Explain your behavior and our evidently-poor cyber-security. Now."

"My lord, he insulted my family and my intellect. Was I not incorrect to defend them?" Therek pleaded.

"Would it not have been possible to do so _without_ embarrassing yourself and me? What could possess you to draw the ire of the voice of a valuable ally? Syramis is no doubt your superior in combat by nature of his position. Pragmatically, in an enclosed space, you would have lost. You are generally more intelligent than that. I expect better of my chief advisor. It would not do for you to be a formless wreck, even for the time it took you to recoalesce. If you do so again in the future, either do it such that I have no knowledge of it, or do it where you would have the advantage. I will not condone either yours or his actions."

"...Yes, my lord. I shall strive to be better in the future," Therek ceded.

"But enough of such talk; how did he know in the first place?" Sarnakh could switch between anger and peace as quickly as throwing a switch.

Therek thought for a minute. "My lord, I do not know. I shall set my best subordinates on it to find out. I personally shall strengthen our cyber-defenses," Therek swore.

"As you do so, you shall be confined here as punishment for ten days. In the meanwhile, repair Secutor," Sarnakh gestured to the inanimate Lychguard, "to full combat capacity. Then fix our cyber-defenses," Sarnakh ordered.

"Of course, my lord."

"Especially lock down the data pertaining to our third reason for being here. It would not do to expose our allies' identities to each other prematurely, especially as one would most definitely not approve of the other..." Sarnakh issued a short grating laugh, then exited and went to the bridge of his flagship to coordinate the early stages of the campaign.

Break

"As the Phaeron wills it..." The lychguard lord intoned, dipping his head slightly, then turning to leave. He afforded Zalaan nothing in word or action, though she could feel, for not the first or last time, a measure of his will bearing down upon her own, a silent, yet strong compulsion to follow. _This high borne wants me to trench in and draw the entirety of the orkish horde down upon myself, without any tactical advantage?_ Syramis had been counting upon the maze of ruins and height of it's spires to give heavy cover for his forces, and a height advantage to exploit with his stronger weapons. But the open plains? It would be most difficult, to put it lightly...

 _What I get for barbing him, I suppose..._ Already assuming this was done as a slight to match his own. Court politics, indeed. "Zalaan, do you remember what a Monolith looks like?" he asked the moment they had teleported back to the planet's surface, and making their way to the legion they had brought. The Vargard's cognitator already reeling to adjust for this change of pace. _The land is too pitted and sloped with dunes to employ a Citadel, and the dunes themselves would make for terrible firing positions, too exposed. We could utilize the shallows to enact traps, though shooting will be impossible for any meaningful range, and the krork favor close quarters, not a rank and file warrior's strong suit... The sands will make movement difficult for anything not airborne... We will need our arks and barges... Hm... Unless..._

Without checking if the cryptek had followed, Syramis strode up to, then passed through the miasmic veil of an eternity gate, emerging within the central bay of his own flagship. The Twilight Skiv was a fairly small craft, for something baring the title of flagship, but this suited Syramis well enough, even in life he was a man of strict practicality, only affording aesthetic and leisure when absolutely needed, a far cry from his eternal rival, ranks be damned. The ship sat upon the far side of the moon, wreathed within a cloud of asteroids he had ordered to surround it, affording cover and disguise. "I will be in my chambers, do as you will, Lady Zalaan..." The sound of his heavy footfalls failing to echo down the airless vacuum of the laberynth.

Several doors slid open automatically, then shut just as easily in the master lychguard's wake, before coming to a room who's archway was adorned only by a single set of sigils, and a tesla sphere. Ducking his head slightly as he entered, the Vargard slowly panned his vision across the room, taking stock of every item and personal effect he still had to his name... Everything not stolen by the ineffable march of time and entropy, the only light coming from the pixilated emerald glow of holographic flames, from fake scounches around the outer walls. Passing a wall of racked weapons, he briefly, mutely looked over each one, free talon stroking over the hilts, hafts, and inactive blades of each... Stopping upon a Rod of the Covenant: When had he acquired this? A terrible, low grinding ebbing out of the automaton as he raked and clawed his cavernous, aeons old memories of the origin of such a symbol of power...

Gaps, empty spaces where centuries of time should have stood out. Things began to spin as confusion, rage, fear rushed in. Why did he have this?! What reason did the vargard of a paltry phaeron possess a weapon of the Triarch?! No, it was a gift, was it not? No, no no! The gift was his cloak, but from WHO? So many gaps, how could he forget? How could a superior shell as his forget?! No, he did not forget, did he? No, no no. He just misplaced it, that was all, he misplaced his memories... He'd find them later, he'd find them and remem~

The static laced crack of the master comms array awakening distracted the commander, drawing his attention to a flouting panorama of screens, each comprised o bent light of varying shades of red, blue, gold, and green. Discarding his previous thoughts, he couldn't quite place why he was upset, anyways, Syramis stepped into the center of the displays, and looked from image to image. The first showed only a live feed from the planet below, caught in the thick of a terrible sandstorm, yet he knew he was looking at _Her_ , next was only the embellished emblem of his Dynasty, shown in it's full, complete splendor, a honor reserved only for the royal family and their personal aids, such as Overseer Add to dictionary and her precious pet Illuminekh Phy'radi. Further down was a dark, wet looking chamber who's contents were a ghostly and ghastly series of mangled figures, some screaming from torture, others mutely doing the torturing, and none other than the cloaked form of Techtonix, Slayer of Zi, and self proclaimed Phaeron of Flayed Ones dominating the foreground, seeming momentarily dazed with the unquenched euphoria of his latest kill, and lastly, the final screen depicted a large room, it's walls lined with stasis crypts and treasures, both earned and taken, the central crypt seeming more lavishly adorned than the others, though the screen seemed to focus upon and follow a cryptek who~

"... Abacus..?" The Vargard half growled, half queried, causing the once-man to stop so abruptly as to almost lose his stack of head adornments. Yes. Stack. For the cryptek in question was at current wearing a commissar's greatcoat adorned with eldar spiritstones of numerous styles and a host of purity seals, with a Deathwatch Marine's helmet over his own head(awkwardly fitted), the commissar's hat upon that, and a golden wreath upon that, also hanging with more spiritstones and seals.  
"O-oh! Master Syramis! M-m-my apologies! I, I was not anticipating that my Lady would be called on such short~"

"Abacus." His tone silencing the cowardly tin can. "Are you~?"

"Yes,"

"Did you~?"

"Yes Sire,"

"Are those~?"

"Yes Sire,"

"Does she~?"

"N-no Sire... Please don't tell..."

The Vargard could practically hear the rivets rattling in fear from across the gulf of space. "So as I say, and I will refrain..."

"Of course Sire! As you wish! Now, how may Abacus, tenant of the Dragon's Cult be of service?!"

"Rouse your Ladyship, but only just so, I wish to parlay with her..."

"At once, Sire." The line immediately going dead, the cryptek no doubt rushing to clean up before performing the daunting command...

"Now," Syramis intoned, turning to the empty desert landscape, a strange amalgamation of senses boiling up within his cold metal core, before ebbing away like a tide, "Lady Sionate, your report...?"

End Chapter


End file.
